Honey
by Nelsynoo
Summary: After waking from a bad dream, Cullen finds himself in the Skyhold kitchens looking for a snack and a cup of tea. Instead he finds the Inquisitor. Starts off angsty but ends up fluffy and a little smutty.


The dreams seem real until they don't.

There's always something – some strange tick, some little tell – and that's when the illusion is shattered. That's when Cullen knows it's just a dream; _it's just a dream_.

Uldred did indeed summon the demons, murdering his brothers for the sake of more power – but he didn't have horns emerging from his mop of sandy hair, or eyes that glowed a sickly red – he was just a man, frail and flawed, and it's only Cullen's imagination that makes his appearance more monstrous. And the corridors really were slicked with blood, great slashes of crimson standing stark against the grey of the masonry – but the blood didn't move as if alive, crawling up the walls and snaking across Cullen's skin, coating his face, his mouth, as if to smother him.

Ser Declan _was_ ripped apart by demons, that bit's real, but he didn't call to Cullen for help when it happened. He didn't say anything, actually, didn't even scream. Just one moment he was crawling along the flagstones toward Cullen's prone form, and then the next he was gone, torn apart like a ship dashed upon the rocks. There wasn't enough _time_ for screaming (although there was enough time for Cullen to memorise his face in those final moments; the indescribable fear etched into the young man's face).

The dreams always start off much the same. There's the screaming, sometimes the muffled cries from the Harrowing Chamber, sometimes Cullen's own hoarse bellowing. And then there's the thick smell of blood in the air, sharp and coppery and oddly sickly-sweet. And then of course there's the _whispering_ , the demon's voice sounding silky and sultry and _infuriatingly amused_ as promises drip from sneering lips.

 _I can free you from your prison_ , she says, voice soft, purring, _I can give you anything you want._

 _Do you want power, little Templar?_

 _Or maybe someone warm and kind to keep you company?_

She'd shown him Amell, then, the little mage apprentice with the round, almond eyes and the shy smiles. He'd liked her – more than he was supposed to, more than he'd ever wanted to admit.

But tonight it's not Amell; tonight it's _Anwen_ who smiles down at him in the demon's place, and it's the sight of her face that gives him pause.

It's wrong.

The words are the same; the demon repeating the same words that Amell had said to him all those years ago. But it still… it doesn't _sound right_ to hear Anwen's voice. Anwen's voice is lower and richer than Amell's, with the crisp diction of a Marcher and the distinctive haughtiness that comes from being born and raised into nobility.

She smiles as she talks, that lopsided little smirk he knows so well, and there's such painful earnestness behind her eyes that he _almost_ wants to accept the outrageous offers she's making. She offers him her love, offers him her body – softly curving flesh yielding just for him. _You can have me_ , she says, _all of me_.

No, no – it's wrong, _all wrong_.

Anwen doesn't belong here, among the blood and the death. Anwen is clean and sharp – bright laughs and clever eyes. He didn't even _know_ Anwen back then, knew nothing of the Inquisition or Corypheus or Red Lyrium or Venatori. It was a different time; a different life.

It's wrong, _it's wrong_ – just a dream. Anwen doesn't belong here. And Cullen doesn't belong here either, not anymore; he's moved on – made a life for himself, a _good_ life, far from the miseries of Kinloch Hold. He needs to wake up, needs to wake up – _now_.

His whole body jerks as he comes crashing to consciousness.

The screams are gone, though his ragged breathing sounds almost deafeningly loud in the stillness of his room. And the smell of blood is gone too, leaving only the fresh pine of the Frostbacks and the lemon scent of the wax he uses to polish his armour.

The demon is gone too, the one who'd worn Anwen's face as it leered above him, and instead of staring into her eyes, he's staring at the ceiling above him. The wooden beams are new; his roof having been fixed relatively recently at Anwen's insistence ( _no member of the Inquisition is going to catch a cold due to improper accommodations_ , she'd said), and for the first time he finds himself resenting her thoughtfulness. It would be nice to look up at the stars right now, to see the night sky stretching endlessly above him.

He would feel less trapped.

He groans as he pulls himself upright, swinging his legs over the side of his bed to rest his feet on the thick pile of his rug (and Anwen had insisted on that as well; his room had been far too sparse for her liking). He wriggles his toes against the soft fabric, revels in the feeling; a pleasantly tactile reminder that he's _definitely_ not in the tower anymore. Nothing there was this soft, this plush; only ever strictly practical.

He takes a few moments to consider what to do next. He knows that sleep will be impossible now. He can feel the dream still scrabbling against the inside of his skull, writhing just behind his eyes, clamouring for attention. He could try reading, of course. There are plenty of reports waiting on his desk, and he's always complaining that he never has the time to read any of the books lining his shelves. But he's not sure he's in the right frame of mind to really concentrate.

One thing's for sure, he doesn't want to stay in his room. It seems too small now, the thick stone walls caging him in – almost suffocating in their nearness – and all he can think of is handprints smeared in blood and the shimmering lights of his cage.

Instead he pulls on some worn boots, shimmies down the ladder to his office, and steps quickly through the door and out into the cool night air.

It's colder than he'd expected (maybe he should have grabbed his mantle as he'd left his room, anything to drape over the loose trousers and tunic he'd chosen for sleep) but then he supposes it's kind of bracing. The night air is sharp, the kind of cool crispness that comes with a cloudless sky, the kind of biting briskness that clears the mind. He could use that now, a bit of clarity, some freedom from the lingering remnants of his dream still needling at the edges of his mind.

He crosses Skyhold's courtyard quickly (it's too cold to linger) then slips into the main Keep, stopping by the fireplace in the Great Hall only long enough to warm his hands. He keeps on walking, slipping through the Keep's winding corridors, carefully closing doors behind him so as to not disturb those who, unlike him, have been lucky enough to find restful sleep this night. He's not really sure where he's going – but there's something oddly soothing about just mindless wandering, his feet beating out a steady rhythm against the flagstones.

Somehow, he finds himself in Skyhold's kitchens.

At first he considers immediately turning and leaving; after all, he's not particularly hungry. But it _would_ give him something to do – grab some morsels to eat, maybe make a nice cup of tea. It'll occupy his mind if nothing else; the delightful distraction of mundane activity.

He doesn't expect to find Anwen there – and the sight of her makes him stop in his tracks.

She stands at the centre of the room behind a large, oak table, its worn, grooved surface scattered with bowls and jars and sprinkled liberally, and somewhat over-zealously, with flour. She's rolling out a fresh sheet of pastry, singing absent-mindedly to herself as she works, each slow stanza matching perfectly with the steady, languid movement of her hands. One set of pastries is already complete, and they sit patiently on a nearby cooling rack as she works.

The smell that fills the kitchens is glorious – rich and warm and thickly spiced – and he breathes in deeply, letting the smell fill his senses.

Too preoccupied with her task to notice his approach, Cullen is treated to the rare sight of Anwen without any of her carefully cultivated masks in place. Her hair is dishevelled from recent sleep, her forehead creased with concentration, and a dollop of batter is smeared jauntily across the bridge of her nose. The whole effect is, well, rather _endearing_. A fond smile pulls at the corners of his mouth and Cullen decides to stand and watch for as long as her distraction will allow.

At last she spots him – and a startled _oh_ escapes her lips as she jolts back from the table. She swiftly swipes her hands against her apron, a cloud of flour billowing into the air as she does so, then runs her fingers through her thick curls in a vain attempt to bring them into some semblance of order.

"Oh dear," she chuckles with a tight smile, "excuse the bed-hair; I wasn't expecting company."

"You look beautiful," he says as he steps more fully into the room. Because she _does_ look beautiful, despite her disarray – or perhaps even because of it.

An image from his dream comes burrowing forward, an image of the demon wearing Anwen's face, sneering and simpering with promises. That face had been too pristine, too composed. But _this_ face – with cheeks tinged pink from exertion and eyes warmed by pleasure – this is the _real_ one.

There's an odd twinge of guilt in the pit of his stomach, guilt for having seen her in such a way in his dream, imagining her with the demon's words dripping from her smiling mouth. It feels almost like a violation – to use her image in such an unpleasant way.

"Can I get you anything?" she asks, and though she's trying to keep the tone of her voice light and casual, she must be able to read the discomfort in his expression because she's looking at him with pinched brows, a flicker of concern in her eyes.

"No, no," he says hastily, "I'm sorry to interrupt. I just…" He lets his words trail off, uncertain as to how much he should share. He thinks it probably best not to confess that he sees her in his darkest dreams, taunting him with the empty promises of a demon.

"Couldn't sleep," she finishes for him, smiling with more softness than he thinks he deserves.

He nods.

"Me neither," she continues, "after Chateau d'Onterre, I just… I just can't seem to switch off my mind and I thought…," her words trail off with a sigh, followed by an uncharacteristically graceless shrug. "Baking relaxes me."

She throws him a smile as she steps forward to resume her work, putting the rolling pin aside to rub spices into the dough. He tries to smile back, a small attempt at alleviating her concerns (and probably a vain one given the narrow crease that remains between her brows).

"I wouldn't have expected the illustrious Lady Trevelyan to cook," he teases, hoping to brighten the mood.

She huffs. "The illustrious Lady Trevelyan _doesn't_ cook – but Anwen the apostate does."

Pistachios and almonds are scattered liberally across the dough, her eyes focused on the sheet of pastry in front of her as she talks. "I never would have stepped _foot_ inside the kitchens when I was younger – the young Lady Trevelyan did _not_ do domestic labour – but then I ended up working in some nobleman's kitchen shortly after running away from home. Of course I hated it; I _hated_ getting my hands dirty. And I thought kitchen work was just… thoroughly beneath a woman of my station," she lets out a bark of laughter, clearly amused by her own childhood snobbishness.

"But then… _in time_ I realised how rewarding it felt to make something with my own two hands. Food really does taste so much better when you've prepared it yourself. And _then_ I thought – if I was in a Circle, I wouldn't be _allowed_ to cook. I would just have to eat whatever was given to me. And I realised how _lucky_ I was. I realised… what an utter _privilege_ it is to have the opportunity to cook for myself."

She looks up at him, her hands pausing momentarily. "Sorry," she mutters, "I'm rambling."

"No, I like it," he insists, "I like listening to you talk."

"That's probably because you're struggling to sleep and you're hoping I can bore you into unconsciousness."

He chuckles. "Yeah – something like that."

She carries on with her work, rolling the pastry into a tight spiral.

"So what _are_ you making?" he asks, watching curiously as she cuts the spiral of dough into small, curled disks.

"Mandicciolo."

He blinks with surprise, his head cocking to the side as a grin spreads across his face. "I love those!" he exclaims, voice cracking with enthusiasm. He can see her smirking at him, entertained by his almost boyish exclamation of excitement.

He clears his throat before continuing in a more even tone, "I remember Mandicciolo in Kirkwall. There was a shop in Hightown that made them. We'd buy them sometimes, as a treat, you know, for feast days or name days."

"Well aren't you Templars cute? Buying each other pastries," she teases, nose wrinkled in amusement. "They're not just a Kirkwall thing; they sell them all over the Free Marches. But I think I remember the place you mean – the one with the flowers carved above the door?"

"Yes – that's it," he says, and though he's nodding eagerly his brows are furrowed with confusion, surprised to hear her talking of Kirkwall with such familiarity. "I didn't know you'd spent time in Kirkwall."

"Oh yes," she says as she arranges the pastry disks evenly across a baking tray, "I've been pretty much everywhere in the Free Marches. I did in fact spend several months in Kirkwall when travelling from Ostwick to Tantervale. What an absolute shit-hole, right?"

He laughs, unable to broker any words of disagreement.

"All that oppressive Tevinter architecture, the horrible overcrowding," she continues with a sneer, "and there was that tavern… blech – _the Hanged Man_ – Andraste's Arse, that was possibly the shittest tavern in which I've ever set foot. Everything was suspiciously sticky… and the _smell_ – ugh! It was like drinking in a sewer."

He laughs again. "Don't let Varric hear you say that."

"Oh it's too late for that – we've already had this conversation. Honestly, I thought he was going to skewer me with a crossbow bolt right then and there. Imagine that – the mighty Inquisitor assassinated for mouthing off about some dingy, shit-stain tavern – what an ignoble way to meet my end."

"It might be dingy but it's bloody lucky," Cullen muses, "Qunari invasion, fire, civil war – despite everything that has befallen Kirkwall, the Hanged Man has never suffered so much as a _scratch_."

She chuckles wryly. "Proof – as if further proof were needed – that the Maker has a wicked sense of humour."

He matches her chuckle with one of his own.

It's _nice_ , he realises, being able to talk about Kirkwall once more without the bitter sting of painful memories. Because he _does_ have nice memories of Kirkwall – even if most of them are overshadowed now by memories of blood magic, and misery, and Meredith Stannard's body turning to stone.

There were some good people amongst the Gallows' Templars; not quite his friends, but solid, dependable people nonetheless. And there was good food in Kirkwall too, and better beer, a rich variety of flavours coming from all along the coast. He even liked the warmer weather, even if the summer heat got a bit too stifling for his Ferelden sensibilities.

Of course some memories still smart, a niggling pain beneath his sternum when he thinks of all the people he'd let down, both mages and Templars alike slaughtered in the chaos after the Chantry was destroyed. But over time the pain has lessened, and he hopes the same may one day be true of Kinloch Hold as well. Because there had been good times then too – and he would like to remember them without the sound of screaming, or the phantom pain of blunted fingernails tearing at his skin.

It occurs to Cullen that he's been lost in thought for some time, a long silence falling over the pair of them as he thinks of Kirkwall. But then Anwen doesn't seem to have noticed, her full attention directed toward the second batch of pastries that now sit in neat rows on the baking tray, pale and soft and ready for baking. She picks up the tray and places it carefully into the oven, closing the door with a theatrical flourish before leaning across the table toward Cullen.

"So would you like one?" she asks, head nodding at the rack of pastries that are already baked, shining in the candlelight, burnished and inviting.

"Please, thank you," he responds, extending a hand to liberate a pastry from the cooling rack. He picks the largest pastry of course, so stuffed with filling that the pistachios are bursting through the flaky pastry, and he can tell from the way the corner of her lip quirks that she has noticed his preference and finds it amusing.

He's just about to take a bite when Anwen suddenly yelps, extending a hand to stop him.

"Wait, wait!" she cries, "you're forgetting something important."

She snatches the pastry from his hand and then picks up one of the large jars from the table and dips the pastry inside. When she pulls it out, the pastry is covered in a thick layer of honey, dark and golden, dribbling over the pastry and coating her fingers.

She reaches out her hand, giving the pastry a little shimmy while holding it tantalisingly close to his lips.

"Take a bite," she offers huskily, arching one brow coyly.

He smiles, leaning forward to bite the proffered pastry from between her fingers, groaning appreciatively as the spicy sweetness bursts on his tongue. The sound is more vulgar than he'd really intended but he just can't help himself; the pastry is outrageously sweet, still warm, spiced with cinnamon and cloves and bursting with nuts. When he licks a few crumbs from his lips, he's amused to see her watching him intently, her eyes trained eagerly on his mouth.

A little shiver prickles up his spine, strangely delighted by the hungry look in her eyes, delighted even more that he's the one to elicit such a response in her.

When she tries to withdraw her hand, he stops her, grasping her gently by the wrist and lifting her hand to his lips. One by one, he takes each of her fingers into his mouth, licking off the honey with long, languid strokes of his tongue.

Her bottom lip drops and her eyes go wide, astonished at his boldness perhaps. But then her lips curl into a crooked smirk and she hums appreciatively.

"Want another?" she offers, brows lilting playfully.

"Hmm," he muses, "I think I'd like something… a little sweeter."

Her smirk broadens into something wicked then, almost feral, before she suddenly brushes aside the brushes and pots from the table and clambers up onto the pocked, wooden surface. Cullen watches as she crawls across the table on all fours, eyes hooded as her gaze remains locked on his, flour and honey smearing across bare legs and the front of her night-shirt as she moves.

When he's in her reach, she stretches out and grabs him by the lapel of his tunic, pulling him closer until she can capture his lips in a searing kiss. Her mouth is hot, pressing against his with an insistent intensity. She tastes sweet, of honey and cinnamon and toasted almonds, and he wonders how many of her own pastries she must have eaten to cause their taste to linger.

He reaches out, sliding his hands along her shoulders and then down to her waist, digging his fingers into soft flesh before _pulling_. She squeaks against his lips as he pulls her closer, dragging her across the table-top until her bum is perched on the edge, legs dangling on either side of his hips. Pots and bowls go scattering, smashing against the stone floors, but he's too fixated on her lips to really care.

"Sweet enough for you?" she murmurs breathily against his lips.

"I don't know," he smirks back, "I might need another taste."

Their mouths come together again, teeth clacking in their eagerness, tongues delving out to taste the other, to taste cloying sweetness tempered by the rich spiciness of cinnamon and clove.

Her legs curl around him, pulling his hips flush against hers, and his groan is muffled by her lips. One of his hands rises to fist into the curls at the nape of her neck while the other slides up the outside of her thigh, rucking up her shirt as it continues higher, stroking teasingly against her lower back.

This is what the demon in his dreams had promised him – warm flesh, soft skin. But it's better than any demon's fever dream. It's _messier_ – _stickier_ – flour smeared across his trousers and honey on his skin from where Anwen's fingers have stroked against his cheek. She's sweaty and dishevelled, face flushed with building heat, and his movements are clumsy, limbs made heavy from too many restless nights – but her lips are against his, hands burning against his skin where they frame his face, and the feeling of _her_ makes all the aches and the fatigue and the awkward fumbling diminish into insignificance.

His cage at Kinloch Hold seems another lifetime away, when he was young and desperate, when he'd been so close to offering his soul to a demon just to be held in the gentle arms of a too-young apprentice.

He's a different man now – a better man. Maybe still troubled by past demons but getting better every day. The woman in his arms had an important part to play in that. She'd showed him that he doesn't have to be defined by his past failures – and maybe in time he'll be able to prove himself worthy of her faith.

For now the dreams may still plague him, a bitter reminder of what he once was, but they don't have to consume him anymore, stale and sour and coppery. Because the richness of his reality is enough to banish his dreams – warm skin in his palms, the sound of breathy little moans in his ears, and the sweet, sweet taste of honey on his lips.


End file.
